


The Dinner Party

by TwoBrokenMirrors



Category: Portal (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Female-On-Male Rape, Heed the noncon tag, Roma Sub Porta, heavily AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwoBrokenMirrors/pseuds/TwoBrokenMirrors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an AU of Portal where all the characters are Romans! Decimus is Wheatley and Sergia Lepida is GLaDOS, and it's set in an army camp in Germany. (Gnaeus, mentioned once, is Adventure Sphere/Rick)<br/>In this, Decimus is very hopeful for promotion, and Sergia has an idea what he can do to earn it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dinner Party

The Legate’s house stood in splendid isolation just far enough away from the barracks blocks to avoid accidental contact with common soldiery, while still being close enough to give the illusion of being One Of Them. The men, generally, were not fooled, and none of them were stupid enough to set foot near the place unless specifically selected for guard duty there.

Decimus, perhaps unsurprisingly, had never stood guard duty there, and despite a certain amount of brave talk had never plucked up the courage to approach at any other time. Even now, when he had a specific invitation to approach, and indeed enter, the required amount of nerve was proving hard to come by.

“It’s _Her_ , it’s _Her_ , she wants me to _eat_ with her, she’s invited me to a _private dinner_ ,” he muttered to himself as he lurked in the shadows, less under his breath than he thought it was. “She wants to talk to _me_ , she’s noticed _me_...”

Under the bubbling terror, a certain amount of the pride he’d felt when he first received the invitation began to resurface. It was true! She _had_ noticed him, and if she was inviting him to a dinner then it can’t have been in the way he was usually noticed. She must be interested in him, she must want to talk to him. She hadn’t invited Gnaeus, or Aulus, or even Spurius who talked almost as posh as she did- she’d invited _him_.

...  
Perhaps she wanted to offer him some kind of _promotion._

Greatly buoyed by this thought, he puffed out his chest and stood up straighter, stretching his frame to its not inconsiderable full height and nodding to himself. She was _totally_ just _waiting_ to offer him a new job, a better-paying job, one that would one day lead to him being Legate himself and living in a house like the one in front of him. She had taken an interest- a _benevolent_ interest no less- and he would not repay it by being late to the dinner.

The thought of facing her displeasure if he arrived late gave him the last spurt of motivation necessary to abandon the shadows and cross the beaten grass towards the door.  
The two guards standing there gave him looks that spoke volumes in disbelief as he announced he was there to dine with Sergia Lepida, and their gazes made him bridle with offence. They thought he didn’t belong there! They probably thought he was puffed-up and that the lady of the house would turn him away, and then they would get to laugh at him. He pulled himself up even further, raising his chin, and gave them both a furious glare. He knew he was supposed to be there, and he _also_ knew he looked _damn good_ , being attired in his full armour with his best tunic and cloak. He’d even _polished_ the armour, he’d spent hours slaving over the stuff, even longer washing his clothes, and you could hardly even _see_ the seam where the cloak had ripped on a tree branch and he’d (inexpertly) patched it up. He was a fine figure of a man. His fellow squaddies had told him so when he left, and only a couple of them had been obviously smothering grins. He repeated his request, voice rising in volume and only the _smallest_ bit in pitch, and one of the guards raised a hand in a rather condescending gesture of acceptance and ducked inside.

It was hard to maintain that level of self-importance in the face of the remaining guard's narrow-eyed regard, much as he wanted to, and there was a certain amount of sneaking relief when the door eventually opened again. One of the Lady Sergia’s house slaves (not Lucretia? He’d been hoping it would be Lucretia, he’d wanted her to see him in his finery. Maybe she would be serving at the table?) had come to fetch him, and he did his best to sweep in after her, imagining the guards’ disappointment at being robbed of their amusement and feeling little short of gleeful at the image. The house was as grand inside as it was outside; it was evident that the windows had _glass_ , the mosaics on the atrium floor must have cost ten years of his wages, and the wall-paintings were in what he fuzzily remembered as the latest style and executed with skill evident even to his untrained eye. The slave-girl led him into the central courtyard, where amid well-trained greenery two luxurious couches surrounded a low table laid with food he’d never even seen before, let alone tasted.

But the centrepiece of the scene, the part that drew the eye, was undoubtedly Sergia Lepida.

She reclined on one of the couches, totally at ease, dressed in a simple white stola that nevertheless screamed the quality of the tailoring from every fold and drape. At her wrists, throat and hairline glinted the kind of discreet golden jewellery that was worth twenty of most gaudier pieces other women might wear, and she was smiling ever so slightly as she regarded her cup of wine.

He stopped just at the edge of the circle of light that surrounded the dining area, and swallowed. His stubborn assurance in his own good looks and deserving nature was slipping away in a most uncomfortable fashion, leaving him adrift on uncertainty and the first faint tinges of humiliation. This was somehow much grander than he had expected, and the lady herself was- well, she must be pushing seventy, maybe? How could she still look so- so- _seductive?_

As this awkward thought crossed his mind, Sergia Lepida raised her eyes to him, and her smile broadened. It was the sort of smile he hadn’t even slightly expected of her, warm and welcoming, and he was too taken aback by this to notice that it never touched her eyes.

“Decimus Tarquinius Atticus, how lovely to see you,” she purred, extending a languid hand to indicate he should make himself comfortable on the other couch. “Thank you for coming. Claudia will take your cloak and helmet.”

The slave-girl who had seen him in materialised again at his shoulder, eyes downcast, waiting. Her sudden presence made him jump; he pulled off his cloak and helmet with some haste and thrust them at her, and she flicked him a single terrified glance and bore them away with quick, frightened steps.

“Come, sit,” said Sergia, repeating her gesture. “Wine?”

“Uh- yeah, thanks,” mumbled Decimus, trying to stride towards the couch and instead moving in a strange cross between a scuttle and a trot. As he flumped down on the soft fabric Claudia returned, picking up the wine jug and pouring him out a generous cupful, mixed with a civilised amount of water. His hand was trembling as he reached for it, he noticed, and scowled at his own limb for betraying him.

The wine, once he got it to his lips, turned out to be best Falernian- not that he could have named it, never having tasted it before. But his brows shot up and his face opened with pleasure as he tasted it, and Sergia noted this, and smiled.

“Good? It is the best vintage I could find in my brother’s stores. Quintus does not have a great palate for wine, but he does so enjoy spending his money.”

“It’s amazing, luv, never tasted anything like it!” he said, enthusiastic enough to be forgetting that the sister of the Legate was not someone you usually referred to as ‘luv’. Half a second later this small fact returned to mind, and he froze- but Sergia was still smiling, even laughing, and he relaxed in slightly bemused relief.

“Do have some more,” she said, gesturing at Claudia to refill his cup. “And do try the food. Quintus is always so keen on new foods, especially lemons. You cannot pull him away from his lemons.”

“...What’s a lemon?” asked Decimus, pulling his nose out of his cup. Sergia leaned forward and picked out an oval yellow fruit from the decorative arrangement in the centre of the table, passing it over. Curious, Decimus sniffed, picked a bit at the pitted, waxy rind, and bit.

“Blurgh! Don’t think much of these, I gotta say, luv. Taste weird, funny texture!”

“I believe they are usually peeled,” said Sergia, and the trace of amusement in her voice made a hot flush race to cover Decimus’ face all at once. He tossed the lemon back onto the table and forced his voice into tones of dismissal.

“Werl, bet they won’t taste good even if you peel ‘em. Can’t say I like ‘em. Dumb fad, won’t catch on.”

“Quite. Perhaps this dish would be more to your taste?”

She passed across another platter, small fish in a rich sauce, and this did indeed turn out to be more to his taste. Encouraged by Sergia’s apparent pleasure in showing him things he had not met before, he munched his way through most of the table with enormous gusto, although when she coaxed him to taste an actual slice of lemon, it did not go down very well.

“Never mind,” said Sergia, waving a brisk hand at Claudia to mop up the spilled wine and upset plates caused by lemon-induced spasms in gangly limbs. “We cannot all be fond of everything. Allow me to refill your cup... and perhaps another dormouse? You seemed to enjoy those.”

Another dormouse went down much easier than the lemon had, and so did the refilled wine. He had long since lost track of exactly how much of the stuff he'd drunk; it went down so easily, and it couldn't have been more than he usually drank on a night out with the boys. Surely. The fact that everything seemed to be starting to spin and sway in unsettling motion was... fine. He couldn't remember if water had been added to the last few cupfuls. This was... probably also fine. Things like that happened at dinner parties. Probably.

He blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his vision, and realised with a shock that Sergia Lepida was now occupying the same couch as he was. When had that happened? She was very close, which was... strange. Something about it wasn't right, especially the bit where her hand was resting on his thigh, but trying to work out exactly what just made him feel sick.

“Uh... luv?” he managed, and pressed a hand against his cheek. It was very hot. “Uh...?”

She was still smiling at him, which made him feel a confusing mixture of much better and much worse, and even more sick. He swallowed, concentrating on not bringing everything back up again in her face, and almost missed what she was saying.

“You're an up-and-coming young man, Decimus Tarquinius Atticus. You have ambition, I can see it in you. Your desire is evident, and I... I can give you what you want. I can give you power.”

Even through the haze, that got his attention.

“You- you can?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes like a child. “Gotta 'mit, luv, never- never thought like you was gonna _actually_ gimme a prom-proma- bump up inna ranks, luv. 'S pretty damn good've you t'do it, luv. Jus'- jus' wait till I tell th' guys! An' Lucretia! Say, where- where _is_ -”

“You can tell her later,” Sergia interrupted smoothly. “She'll be pleased to hear. And I _will_ give you power, Decimus. I will promote you as you deserve, believe me, with me behind you you will rise to heights you never imagined. But you must give me something in return... as is fair.”

“Fair? Uh, dunno, luv, what- is it fair? 'Spose it is, yeah.” He scrubbed a hand through his sweat-damp curls, spiking them into a mess that would have given his centurion fits. “What's I- what've- I gotta do?”

“Nothing difficult, nothing unpleasant,” purred Sergia. She seemed to be much closer to him than she'd previously been, and the hand on his thigh had moved upwards as well. He blinked at it. “Only something I am sure you will enjoy... I have known sufficient men to understand this is something you _all_ desire.”

“Uh, not quite gettin' you here luv, not- un-understandin'... OH. That's- luv, that hand- uh-”

“Do you not find me attractive?” asked Sergia, her voice low and dark. Taken aback, Decimus scrambled to pull himself together enough to find an answer that wouldn't get him suddenly castrated- and besides, wasn't it true that he'd found her _handsome_ for an older lady? It was, wasn't it? And certain parts of him were definitely- definitely expressing a level of interest in this situation, and in the way her hand was slowly moving...

“Uh, yeah, luv, I- I s'pose? Yeah? I- ah!”

He hadn't expected to be pinned so swiftly to the couch, or to have her straddling his legs and pulling at his armour. His hands went to his breastplate fastenings, trying to show willing, only to be slapped away, and likewise when he reached for her stola. At a loss, he returned them to his hair, tugging nervously as she stripped him with so much efficiency he half-expected to learn that she had armour of her own tucked away somewhere.

It was not noticeably less hot when he was naked. The only difference he could discern was that he was suddenly a great deal more uncomfortable.

“Uh- luv?”

“Be quiet,” she said, voice like a whip, and he subsided instantly, biting his tongue. She settled herself astride his hips and lifted her stola over her head with slow, sultry movements, revealing a body that had obviously been cared for with near-obsessiveness over the years. She looked _good_. But for all that, it felt so obscenely wrong to be gazing at her in this way that he had to shut his eyes.

Only to have them fly open again as a stinging slap was delivered to his face.

“Do you not find me attractive?” Sergia demanded, gripping his head to direct his eyes where she desired them. “Do you not?”

A whimper was all he could choke out, but apparently it satisfied her, as she released his head and slid back, running fingertips down his belly. They were shockingly cool against his skin, and he whined, which made her smile.

It was not much like the smiles she had given him previously.

As her fingers made contact with his penis he made a half-hearted attempt to jerk his hips away, and was rewarded with a pinch that made him yelp. So he held still, trembling, as she stroked him to a full erection, and tried his best to swallow the whimpers.

This did _not_ make her smile.

“If you will not speak,” she said, after he had near bitten through his lip holding in a moan, “I will give you another way to use your mouth.”

“I-” he tried, sudden panic loosening his tongue at the idea of what she might be planning. She pinched him again.

“Be _quiet_ ,” she hissed, and rose to her knees, pulling his arms out of the way so she could settle down once again, this time over his face.

Panic instantly flared, and he jolted and almost screamed, muffled by flesh and moisture and heat. Fear as his breath was choked off mingled with half-remembered societal taboos as thoughts of _unmanliness, no, this isn't how it goes, this isn't right, I can't breathe, I can't think, I-_ shot through his head, and he started to struggle in earnest.

And she held him down. She pinned his arms and ground her whole weight down upon his face, snarling imprecations and demands, until he choked and went limp underneath her. And then she raised herself on her knees, and stroked his hair, and whispered to him that he could do it, he could manage, didn't he _want_ the power she could give him? All he had to do was this, it was simple, not so unmanly as he thought, so easy for a clever soul like him.

And in the end he did, desperation pulling up memories of a drunken Gnaeus confiding in him about the time he _ate a girl_ out just to see what it was like, working half on barely remembered details and half on terrified instinct. He threw himself into it, as she moaned and writhed on top of him, working so hard to please her that did not even notice when she first lifted herself away from him.

A hand in his hair jerked him back to himself, blinking, gasping, whining. The hand scratched gently, a caress for a favoured pet.

“Shut your mouth, my darling,” Sergia crooned, sliding herself back along his torso. “You did very well... You are earning your reward, I assure you.”

The words did not even register. Nothing was registering. The groan he let out as she slowly took his erection inside her was instinct alone, the awkward, unsteady thrusting of his hips even more so. If he came, he could not have told; she must have done, for after he didn't really know how long he became aware that she was lying beside him, fingers playing over his chest. As he stirred and blinked at her, she smiled. He shuddered.

“Men!” she said. “You were asleep, my darling. Men always sleep!”

He stared at her. He didn't think he'd been asleep, but if she said so he must have been. Sleeping some more seemed like a very, very good option- but sleeping next to her seemed a very, very bad one.

She was still talking, telling him how much he deserved what she would give him, and how perhaps if they partook of the act again he would earn even more. He wasn't listening; there was a tightness in his chest and a buzzing in his head, and a rising urge to run. It was almost ironic that it was that urge that prevented him hearing right away when she told him, her voice still smug and satisfied, that he should be getting back to the barracks before anyone missed him too much.

As soon as the words filtered through, he sat up, muscles propelling him upright with no input from his brain. His mouth, unused to being silent so long, began to spill out words with equally little aid from above; words of thanks and gratitude and yes, yes, he would leave now, time to go, maybe he would come back later if she wanted him to, always at her command luv for sure. The words piloted him through dressing, buckling up his armour, accepting his helmet back from Claudia; they saved him from the kiss Sergia would have laid on him at the door. And they trailed him into the dark, until he reached an alley between two of the grain storage buildings and everything stopped.

He stood for a second, swaying, breath coming in short, harsh gasps, and then he doubled over and retched, everything he had eaten coming up in aching spasms until there was nothing left, nothing left in his stomach and nothing left in his head.

And then he sat down, and he cried.


End file.
